


Skin and Bones

by tricklesnitz



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Multi, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 21:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18725614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricklesnitz/pseuds/tricklesnitz
Summary: King Ryan Haywood was not always so. A look in how he came to be, told from the perspectives of his closest.





	Skin and Bones

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter has a lot of misgendering and deadnaming, mostly because Ryan doesn't know he's trans for a good chunk of the chapter.

They meet as children.

Lindsay peers out from behind her mother’s skirts, only holding herself back because this is the _princess_. Her mother finally decided Lindsay was old enough to help and she’d jumped at the chance, chattering the entire way about how she and Princess Justinia were going to be such good friends.

But, when they arrive at her brand new big girl chambers, the princess looks… grouchy. Lindsay says as much. “Why?” she asks, too, ignoring her mother shushing her.

The princess only tosses her braid over her tiny shoulder and crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t have to talk to you,” she says

“But you did,” Lindsay points out. “My mommy is your nursemaid now, instead of the nanny in the nursery. We have to be friends.”

“We don’t _have_ to be,” Princess Justinia snaps. “You work for my father. That’s it.”

“Girls,” Lindsay’s mom interrupts, voice stern but not angry. “Introduce yourself properly, Lindsay,” her mom instructs. “Maybe Her Highness will be more open to friendship if she knows you first.”

“I don’t want friends,” Princess Justinia insists.

“You’re eight,” Lindsay points out. “I’m seven and a half.” At her mom’s look, she drops into her best curtsy even though it’s wobbly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Princess,” she says. “I’m Lindsay. But you can call me whatever you want as long as it’s nice.”

Princess Justinia just nods. “It’s nice to meet you too, Lindsay. My name is Justinia Rose of Haywood. Of course, you knew that already.” She sounds too polite and uses a lot of grown-up words. But then she hesitates, uncrosses her arms and twists her fingers together. Now she looks shy instead of grouchy. “But if you want you can call me Rosey. I like it better than Justinia.”

Lindsay overhears her mom tell her dad that night that she lit up like sunshine, when she’s supposed to be asleep. She likes that.

The next morning she helps Rosey wake up. She helpfully holds clothes her mom hands her out of the big cupboard. Lindsay stacks the few toys Rosey has in order by color while her mom helps Rosey get dressed in a more complicated dress than she’s ever seen. Red wood, yellow wood, blue paint, straw doll, straw doll, straw doll. Then she helps her mom rearrange Rosey’s pillows and smooth out the blankets. 

Her mom takes Rosey down to the big dining hall for breakfast and Lindsay follows, because once Rosey is safe in the dining hall, she gets to go to the kitchens and have a fluffy biscuit with some jam and a mug of fancy hot tea that makes her feel very grown up.

In the kitchens today is a new kitchen boy. His hair is curly and brown and he has freckles all over his face. Lindsay stares until he catches her and laughs when he scowls at her. Her mom is more relaxed here in the kitchens, away from the king and the queen and the princess; Lindsay doesn’t get told off for staring _or_ when the new kitchen boy stomps around the big wooden table and gets in her face.

“What’re you looking at?” he demands.

Lindsay laughs into her mug of tea. “You,” she says. “You weren’t here yesterday.” The kitchen boy scoffs loudly; it kind of sounds like he says _duh_ , which Lindsay’s mom says is rude. She doesn’t care about rude, though. “I’m Lindsay.”

“Who cares?” Kitchen Boy replies, rolling his eyes in a big movement. The Kitchen Master shouts for him, and Kitchen boy scrambles off with a hurried, “Yes, sir!”

“Can we bring Rosey down here?” she asks, when her mother puts down a tiny plate in front of her--the biscuit still steams and the jam is quickly turning to liquid on it and soaking through, just how she likes.

Her mother gives her a sharp look. “Absolutely not. A kitchen is no place for a princess. Sit up straight, if you slouch here you’ll slouch in front of Her Highness.” Lindsay obediently straightens her back and slides her mug onto the table in favor of the biscuit.

It burns the roof of her mouth and the tips of her fingers, but she doesn’t mind at all.

While she eats her biscuit, she half watches her mom talk to an old, papery looking lady and half tries to watch the kitchen boy. He runs and runs and dodges and ducks. And then he stops completely to talk to the Kitchen Master, and then he’s sitting on a stool with a tiny knife and a bag of potatoes. If Lindsay had to talk to someone about it, she’d say that he looks like he’s her age, and that’s way too small to use a knife, her dad says.

He looks up after picking out a potato and they meet eyes. He sticks his tongue out. Lindsay giggles and returns the expression, crossing her eyes.

Her mom catches her. “Stop making faces,” she admonishes. “Hurry up and eat, we have to be ready when the princess is.”

“How do we know?” Lindsay asks. She picks up her mug again and takes long gulps of the cooling tea. “Do we guess?”

“No, sweetheart,” her mom says. “Someone up there rings a bell when breakfast is finishing. Then we run up there to be there to take her to her Madame Dodie.”

“Why can’t someone up there do it?” Lindsay asks. The bell rings then, a twinkly little sound that she almost doesn’t hear, so Lindsay doesn’t get the answer she wants. Her mom takes her hand and pulls her from the bench. She barely has time to put her mug down and wave to Kitchen Boy (who ignores her), before her mom pulls her up the flight of stairs from the kitchen to the dining hall.

“You’ve got jam,” her mom mutters, and she licks her thumb and scrubs it off of Lindsay’s cheek. Lindsay considers swatting her mom away, but keeps still when she thinks about how she’ll get a talking-to later about how she has to be clean and grown up if she wants to help with the princess. Her mom had to do a lot of convincing to people higher up, she said, and she needs Lindsay to respect that. Whatever that means.

Then they go into the dining hall and wait by the door for Rosey to climb out of her big, ornate, uncomfortable-looking chair. She heads right for them, and Lindsay’s mom herds both of them right back out the door and the opposite direction from the kitchens.

When her mom takes the lead--which Lindsay is grateful for, because she doesn’t know where the tutor is--Lindsay reaches out and links her pinkie with Rosey’s.

Rosey snatches her hand away. Then she looks at Lindsay out of the corner of her eye. Lindsay offers her hand, making her face into as friendly a smile as she can. Rosey takes her hand, looking almost shy all over again as she does so.

They walk for what feels like forever, up three flights and thirty-six stairs. And then they stop at a big, ornate door with fancy handles. Not really different from Rosey’s room, except that it’s a double door. Her mom pushes open the handle and Lindsay lets go of Rosey’s hand when she steps forward to go inside.

“Good morning, Madame Dodie,” Rosey greets the papery old lady from earlier. Then Lindsay’s mom shuts the door.

Lindsay’s mom crouches so she’s eye-level with Lindsay. “When Princess Justinia is done with Madame Tutor at lunch time, we’ll come get her, okay?” she asks. Lindsay nods. “Until then we do what the other servants do. After lunch, I’ll take the two of you into the garden for some sun. I talked to Madame Dodie while we ate breakfast so I could do that. This is a special privilege for both of you.”

Lindsay sighs with her whole body. “So I need to respect it,” she says. “I need to be on my bestest behavior.” Her mother smiles proudly.

“Yes,” her mom says. “Good job, honey.” She stands and smooths out her skirt. “Maybe we can get some of your dolls to bring out?”

“Rosey has her own,” Lindsay protests.

“You don’t play with yours. You’re more interested in climbing trees and rolling in dirt.” Her mom takes her hand and walks back down the hallway. It doesn’t feel like they’re rushing anymore, and Lindsay is glad.

“What’s wrong with dirt and trees?” she asks, jutting her chin out.

“Not a thing for you, as long as you aren’t playing with the princess. She has to stay clean and proper,” her mom explains.

“What do we do after the garden?” Lindsay asks. She wants to get the whole day planned so nothing takes her by surprise.

Down some stairs they go. “After the garden, Princess Justinia goes back to Madame Tutor, and then she goes to Madame Etiquette until dinner,” Lindsay’s mom says. “Then after dinner she goes to bed and so do we.”

Lindsay wrinkles her nose up. “That sounds boring.” Her mom laughs.

For two years, the schedule stays about the same. The only things that change are the games they play in the garden and what Lindsay does when Rosey’s in tutoring. They go from playing with dolls to playing quiet games of knights, and Lindsay goes from tailing her mother to exploring the castle.

Between Lindsay’s tenth birthday and Rosey’s eleventh, it rains for two weeks almost solid. It’s normal fall weather, but it means they can’t go to the garden. So they spend the afternoon laying on Rosey’s plush rug at the end of her bed and staring at the rain hitting the windows.

“Do you ever wonder what it’d be like to… not be you?” Rosey asks.

Lindsay almost doesn’t hear her over the rain. “What do you mean? Like, not be a princess?”

“Yes,” Rosey says. “I don’t want to be a princess,” she admits.

Lindsay sits up. This isn’t how their usual games start, but she’s flexible. “What do you want to be?” she asks.

“I want to be a prince,” Rosey says. “And not for pretend. For real. I don’t like being Princess Rosey.” She sits up. Her hair swings around her shoulders, and she swipes it away from her face. It’s an angry motion, almost.

“You wanna be Prince Rosey?” Lindsay takes the ribbon off of the end of her braid and braids back Rosey’s. Then she takes out the hairpin holding her bangs back and pins the braid in a tight crown around Rosey’s head.

“No,” Rosey replies. “Not Rosey. Anything but that. And Justinia is worse. I hate wearing dresses. I want to wear pants. But I don’t have any and I don’t know how to get them.” She looks too serious.

Lindsay thinks and thinks and thinks so hard that she has to make a face to make Rosey laugh about it. “I have a cousin named James, and my big brother has a friend named Ryan. Those can be your new names,” she suggests. “And I bet Michael wears the same size pants as you and has some we can borrow.”

Rosey looks thoughtful. “James Ryan of Haywood,” she tries out. Then, “Who’s Michael?”

“He’s from the kitchen!” Lindsay crows, then stands and hoists Rosey up to standing too. “What do you think?”

“About which?” Rosey asks. “Both?” Lindsay nods. “I like James Ryan. But I could just be Prince Ryan for a while, I guess. And… let’s go. I’ve never been to the kitchens.”

“Today’s your lucky day, Ryan!” Lindsay says, taking Ryan’s hands. The change in her--no, his, if Ryan’s a prince and not a princess he should be he--his face when she uses the name cements that this is the right decision. That’s not a smile Lindsay’s ever seen before, and as Ryan’s self-declared best friend, Lindsay decides it’s her job to keep it there.

They make it into a game of sneaking, taking back hallways and rickety stairs all the way down. In the kitchen, it’s as noisy as always. Fires crackling in coal ovens, pots and pans clanging, dishes rattling against each other in soapy sinks, and the _shouting_! If Lindsay hadn’t wanted to work with Ryan so badly she’d be here, for sure.

Michael’s in the other corner of the kitchen, sweeping up a pile of peels into a bin. Lindsay holds tight to Ryan’s hand and drags him across the kitchen, past the servant’s table, and only stopping when they were nearly stepping on the peels. “Don’t step on--” Michael holds a hand out, and then looks up. “Oh,” he says dimly. “It’s you.” His eyes flick to Ryan and go wide. “You--” he starts.

Lindsay claps a hand over his mouth. “Shh!” she hisses. “This is my friend Ryan. He needs some pants.”

Michael knocks her hand away. “If you want me to _shh_ then don’t bring people into the kitchen who aren’t supposed to be here!” he snaps. Then Michael looks at Ryan again. “Get your own pants,” he tells Lindsay. “I have a job, and getting you pants isn’t part of it.”

“I have a job too,” Lindsay retorts. “It’s keeping the princess happy. And if the princess wants pants and you’re the only place I can think of to get them, then it’s part of your job too.” _Princess_ already feels sour in Lindsay’s mouth, but she feels like she has to keep using it around this many people.

Michael makes an _ugh_ noise and puts down the bin of peels. “If you want pants, then you need a shirt too,” he says. “Come on, I guess.” Then he heads through the door behind him. Lindsay thought it led to food storage--and it does, on one side, she sees as they walk by the doorway--but it also leads to servants’ quarters.

Around another corner and through another door, and then they’re standing by a chest at the foot of a bed. “This is where I sleep,” Michael points out. “Stay away from it unless you want me to beat you up.” He flicks the metal tabs on the chest and pulls it open, then rifles through it.

He emerges with plain brown pants and an equally plain cream-colored shirt with laces at the collar and shoves them into Lindsay’s arms. “I don’t want those back, I hated them,” he says.

Lindsay knows Michael. She knows that this means he wants Ryan to keep them as a gift. She’ll tell him that when they get back to his room. “Thank you, Michael!” she says brightly.

“Yes, thank you,” Ryan adds.

“You’re welcome… Prince…?” Michael trails off.

Ryan nods. “Prince Ryan, if you’d like,” he says. Michael looks relieved that he’s been corrected. “But not around my parents or my teachers or…”

“Or my mom, probably,” Lindsay chips in. Ryan nods again, and Lindsay laments her poor braiding skills when Ryan’s hair starts to fall. “Go back to the kitchen, Michael,” she says, gentler, when he hasn’t moved.

Michael bolts.

Lindsay and Ryan take the normal way back to Ryan’s room. Lindsay keeps a tight hold on the clothes Michael’d given them on the off chance someone might _ask_ (and it’s lucky nobody does).

Ryan dissolves into nervous giggles once the door shuts behind him and takes the clothes from Lindsay’s arms. He lays them out on his bed and admires them.

“Do you wanna try them on?” Lindsay asks.

“Oh, yes,” Ryan breathes. They get him unlaced from his dress, and the shirt and pants slid on over his smallclothes and--

And it’s like he’s really himself, for the first time.


End file.
